


Five Times Sherlock Got His Wires Crossed + One Time He Didn't

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, F/M, Filthy, Intrusive Thoughts, It's all transport, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock finally lets himself go, Silly, loss of focus, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6257881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a prompt from redscudery: 'sad wanking.'</p><p>Sherlock has trouble keeping his mind focused during masturbation. An unexpected cast of characters pops into his thoughts until he relaxes and lets himself fantasize about the one person he truly wants.</p><p>Filthy, silly, angsty 5+1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sherlock Got His Wires Crossed + One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/gifts).



1

Sherlock turned down the blanket and climbed into bed. He’d heard Mrs. Hudson leave by the front door ten minutes past and deduced from the sound of her footfalls that she’d changed into her all-day handbag and donned on her ‘good’ coat. That meant she’d be gone for at least three hours, probably longer, and Sherlock decided to make the most of a totally deserted 221. Mrs. Hudson would never judge, nor would she say anything, but Sherlock still felt inhibited masturbating with his grandmotherly landlady just on the other side of the floorboards. He would never have indulged in a mid-morning wank if Mrs. Hudson had been home. But with her exit, and the fact that he was at loose ends with no case working for Scotland Yard and no interesting opportunities on his website, he decided to indulge.

With the day spread out before him with limitless possibilities, Sherlock decided to make the morning one of sensual pleasures. He set his laptop on the bed and perused his porn Favorites. Once he’d kept that particular list of favorites stored in a locked file labeled “archive” to keep it safe from John’s accidental discovery but now that John was off on holiday with his new wife, there wasn’t any need to continue to charade - which probably hadn’t fooled John, anyway. Fishing in his bedside drawer garnered him a bottle of silicon lube and his favorite vibrating dildo, the one that was slim and long and hit just the right spot. A fresh towel from the bathroom and a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his coat pocket completed his supplies and he climbed on the bed, unwinding the top sheet he’d been wearing like a toga. His nipples puckered at the cool air of the bedroom and Sherlock stroked them with his thumbs, enjoying the drag of his thumbnails over the sensitive pink nubs. 

After tweaking his nipples for several more minutes, Sherlock sighed and balanced the laptop on his knees. He clicked through the bookmarked videos until he found a particular favorite: a short, compactly-built man in combat boots, kilt and beret giving a tall, thin, pale man all he had with the kilt pulled up around his waist. Sherlock felt his cock plump as he double clicked to start the clip. Normally he watched porn with earbuds, but with Mrs. H out, he could turn it up as loud as he pleased - grunts and moans soon filled his bedroom. Watching the onscreen action out of the corner of his eye, he poured lube onto his left hand then rubbed his palms together to coat both. Instead of going straight for his cock, as he normally did, Sherlock stroked his hip crease with his slick fingertips and shivered at the sensation, trailing his fingers lightly down his thighs as far as he could reach then back up to stroke his bollocks lightly. Gooseflesh popped in the wake of his touch and he sighed aloud. Fondling his the sensitive skin and rolling his testicles in turn brought a moan from his lips and Sherlock arched his head back and reveled in the sensations: his warm, slick hands, the expensive, smooth cotton of the sheet beneath him, the sound of flesh slapping flesh coming from his laptop. 

His eyes slid closed as he finally touched his cock. He palmed the partially exposed glans, thumbing his foreskin to work it back and expose more of the supersensitive head to his massage. Every exhale was a moan and Sherlock tuned out all sensory input except his right hand, working his cock languidly and his left, stroking the tender skin behind his bollocks. He bent his legs and slipped his left hand further back, slicking his crevice. 

The video ended but Sherlock barely noticed. He reached for the dildo and clicked it on to the lowest setting. Dragging it through the coating of lube behind his bollocks, he pressed it into his skin and bit his lip to keep from crying out. The sensation walked the fine line between pleasure and pain, sending jolts through his body and up his cock, bringing a tiny pearl of precome to the tip. His hips wanted to move, to thrust back and take the now-warm vibrating dong into his body and fuck it. Wanting to prolong the pleasure/pain, Sherlock resisted the urge and pressed the head of it more firmly against his slick skin. 

When he could hold back no longer, Sherlock lifted his hips to slide the vibrator back into his wanting opening. It slid in easily and Sherlock let go, breathing out each breath on a soft _oh_. He called up a mental picture of the kilted man and his slender lover, but instead visions of round, twinkling blue eyes intruded, short bleach-blonde hair, petite figure with round, full breasts swinging in front of his face, a small hand over his, pumping his cock furiously.

Caught up in the fantasy of a body he would never allow himself to want, Sherlock came in a blinding wave, all mental control collapsing as he cried out, “Mary.”

 

2 

He woke up hard - a rare occurrence these days. It reminded him of his teen years, when waking with wood and tossing off in the shower was a daily occurrence. Sherlock smiled, remembering those years when his transport had seemed so out of control, before he'd learned to tame his base instincts and disregard his transport's desires. He decided to follow the routine of his younger years for old times sake and stumbled into the loo to start the shower to warming.

He’d used his mother’s hair conditioner in those days gone by to avoid chafing. Back then he’d used a cheap two-in-one to wash his hair but now he indulged in both conditioning shampoo and smoothing conditioner. He squeezed out a generous handful of the conditioner and stepped into the shower. His back to the spray, hot rivulets ran down over his chest, pucking his nipples, then into the crease where his thighs met his body and on down between his legs. Sherlock shivered in response to the sensation.

Taking himself in hand, Sherlock pumped slowly, trying to settle on a fantasy. He conjured up images of fit small men with tight small holes being plugged by taller, thinner men. So hard he ached, Sherlock jerked quickly, not trying to stretch out the pleasure. The images in his mind bled together then cracked apart, becoming an image of tight black curls, sparkling dark eyes teasing him just shy of creully, full breasts straining at stiffly starched dress shirts, slender dark hands that gripped his throbbing erection along with his bigger hands.

Sherlock came, panting out a name he couldn’t repress, “Sally.”

 

3 

He’d fallen asleep on the sofa mid-afternoon and dreamed of her. It had been more than two years but he could still picture every minute detail: each glossy dark curl, each thick, curving eyelash, the sunburst pattern in her dark blue irises, the peaches-and-cream tone of her skin. The Woman haunted his dreams with riding crop in hand, wearing only black stiletto heels and crimson lipstick, her hair in loose waves around her shoulders. 

Groaning, Sherlock palmed his nearly-painful erection through the thin cotton of his pyjama bottoms. That damned Woman would not leave him alone. He could hold off thoughts of her during his waking hours, but when his transport succumbed to the need to sleep, there she was, ready to flay him and tease and leave him sweating and wanting.

He pushed his hand into the pyjama and gripped hard, using his own sweat to slick his fast jerks. Foreskin shifted up and down the hard column of his shaft and Sherlock groaned in relief. Trying to banish the images of The Woman, he concentrated on the last porn clip he’d watched: a small blond man being double fucked by two taller, dark haired men. He groaned and concentrated on replaying the images he’d stored in his Mind Palace.

He was close, so close, and all it took was saying a name aloud to tip him over the edge. Ejaculate filled his hand as he groaned, “Irene.”

 

4 

_Bored._ Sherlock couldn’t remember a time he’d been more bored than he felt today. Damn John Watson for going off and abandoning him for a wife. Rude of him, wasn’t it, to take an extended sex holiday with her. It’s not like they hadn’t already been going at it like rabbits - the baby in her belly was evidence of that.

With a huff, Sherlock flopped onto his side facing the back of the sofa. Nothing interesting had come across his inbox and even with repeated pestering texts to Lestrade, no case had turned up at the Met. Molly said she didn’t have any body parts to spare and even he’d resorted to texting Mycroft for leads on interesting cases but his brother had nothing for him. With his eyes closed, Sherlock brought up a mental image of a porn video he’d watched and decided he might as well pass the time by masterbating. Mrs. Hudson was out picking up groceries and his dry cleaning so he didn’t even have to bother getting up to close the door.

A pink tongue swiped at his lips as Sherlock replayed the video on his Mind Palace screen. It featured a tall pale man bent over a table with his arse in the air, being fingered and then fucked by a hairless, muscular black man with a shaved head. They’d both been well endowed and performed for the camera with expert ease. He slipped his hand into the waistband of his pyjamas and stroked slowly, teasing his cock to full mast. Licking his lips again, Sherlock sighed and attempted to add a mental audio track to the video in his mind.

Instead, a different voice superimposed itself on the image of the men banging. A soft voice with a burr to its Rs and a lilt to its syllables, teasing him gently with adoration. Before he could stop his mental video, the figure bent over the table morphed into a rounded hourglass figure with long dark hair, sparkling dark eyes, even white teeth and shapely lips, calling his name and begging him to fuck them.

With one last jerk, Sherlock came explosively, crying out, “Janine.”

 

5 

John was home from his sex holiday but he still hadn’t contacted Sherlock in a month. Sherlock was nearly frothing at the mouth in frustration, but he would not be the one to break first. If John wanted his company, John would contact him. He would not beg for John’s attention like some sad puppy.

He’d gone to bed early with his laptop and several cold case files from Lestrade. He had a feeling that the cases were related but he needed to find the thread that ran through them. After fruitlessly researching online, Sherlock shut the laptop in frustration and sunk back on his pillows with fingers steepled below his chin. 

Crime scenes conjured up by the case files swirled through his mind. One of the crimes had been set in a brick lined tunnel. It niggled at the edges of his mind. Brick. Tunnel. Brick lined tunnel. He grinned as the connection snapped into place in his mind. The crime scene picture had been taken in the same tunnel where General Shan had tied up John and Sarah years ago. He was sure of it, the crime had taken place literally at the spot of General Shan’s earlier crime. Sherlock grimaced as he tried to puzzle out any connection between the cold case and the Black Lotus gang.

Quite unbidden, an image of Sarah Sawyer drifted into his mind. Sara, with her sweet smile, her creamy skin unmarked by even a single imperfection, her huge blue-grey eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes. Without wholly realizing what he was doing, Sherlock snaked his hand into his boxer briefs and squeezed. Mental images of Sarah’s full, pink lips brought him to full hardness and he stroked roughly, trying to redirect his thoughts away from John’s past lover. He hadn’t even found her particularly attractive at the time John dated her but now he couldn't shake the images of what her petite figure would look like like underneath her modest, professional dresses. 

Giving up on finding another image, Sherlock stroked harder, trying to get off as quickly as possible to avoid feeling guilt at wanking over John’s old girlfriend. Orgasm washed over him like a flood as he moaned, “Sarah.”

 

+1 

It had been glorious - John, back in Baker Street, fussing over his drug use like he really cared, then really blowing a gasket over Janine parading around the kitchen barely covered by Sherlock’s shirt and later sitting in Sherlock’s lap. And John had agreed to meet him in the lobby of Magnussen's office tower later that evening. 

Sherlock had stripped off his suit and best dress shirt as soon as John had left. He wanted to save them for their evening adventure and really, had John even noticed how well the new shirt molded to his chest? Wrapped in his soft Egyptian cotton sheet, Sherlock reclined on the sofa and replayed the events of the morning. John had looked especially hot, puffing up his chest and strutting about, fueled by anger and frustration. The month without John had seemed endless but the morning’s adventure almost made up for it. Sherlock grinned to himself and thought that John couldn’t have played into his hands any better if he’d planned it that way.

Now Sherlock had an afternoon to kill and then he’d be with John again, just the two of them against the world, chasing after that horrid blackmailer and retrieving the letters Lady Smallwood sought. He felt a stirring in his gut at the thought of working with John beside him, just like in the halcyon days before he’d faked his death. He’d reel off deductions at lightning speed and John would look at him in awe, spouting ‘incredible’ and ‘awesome’ and ‘marvelous.’ The stirring traveled lower at the thought and Sherlock rubbed the heel of his hand down the growing erection beneath his sheet. 

Licking his lips, Sherlock concentrated on the mental image he’d tried so hard to hold at bay. John, shining like the sun, adoring, perfect John, trim and small and beautiful. Sherlock had tried, he’d really, _really_ tried, not to get off to images of his best friend. It felt dirty and he knew that if he ever confessed it to John, he would blow a cog. That didn’t stop his body from reacting, quickly filling and straining against his palm. God, it felt _good_ , to revel in imagined images of John’s smaller hand rubbing his crotch through the sheet, John’s mobile mouth on his. Sherlock threw the sheet off his chest and pinched at his nipples, imagining it was John’s teeth biting at him, then raked his fingernails down over his belly and groaned at the image of John marking him thus. He jerked aside the sheet with both hands and hissed as the room’s cool air met his overheated cock. He wrapped his fist around it and began to stroke in earnest.

Sherlock groaned, sweating squirming and panting. If he just kept his eyes tightly closed, it could be John’s hand on his cock, John tugging and stroking firmly, John sliding his foreskin up and back, John palming his glans. How he’d wanted to give in to this fantasy before but he’d never allowed himself, not with John living in the same flat, not even the two years he’d traveled the globe taking out Moriarty's network, and not since he’d returned to find John pledged to another. He’d kept this fantasy locked away in stout cupboard of his Mind Palace, double locked and deadbolted. But now, with John married, what was the use any more? He could indulge and the risk of John finding out was slim to none. So he let go, gave his imagination free rein, picturing every filthy thing he’d ever wanted to do to John and for John to do to him.

More turned on than he’d ever felt in his life, Sherlock nearly sobbed as the first wave of orgasm took him, shaking and moaning and picturing John stroking his straining cock and kissing his temple, smoothing his sweaty curls away from his forehead. As his climax subsided, Sherlock gathered the sheet around himself and curled toward the back of the sofa, face damp, sighing, “John.”


End file.
